


Amnesia

by bujeetles (Oboeist3)



Category: Phineas and Ferb
Genre: M/M, Trans Character, angst so much angst, human!peter, miggs life is not fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 18:36:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6969472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oboeist3/pseuds/bujeetles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Peter Orso slides into his lair after a long day of grading papers from his first job, he's almost grateful when the Major tells him his nemesis is off today. Almost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amnesia

**Author's Note:**

> writing these two is addicting pls help  
> also this is always grayce's fault  
> i mean that in the best and worst ways  
> alt. title: puzzle pieces  
> hope you enjoy!

Surprising as it might seem to kindly Midwestern agents that make up O.W.C.A.'s main branch, things on the west coast branch aren't significantly different from their own. The agents are briefed, thwart their nemeses, and are just as protective of their alter egos. Ok sure, they don't have a lot of full time villains, or any big L.O.V.E.M.U.F.F.I.N. players, but living in the big cities is _expensive_ , and Evil is like sports, it doesn't pay until it gets big. 

 

So when Peter Orso slides into his lair after a long day of grading papers from his first job, he's almost grateful when the Major tells him his nemesis is off today. Almost. 

 

You see, Professor Mystery is one of their few regulars, he's got everything planned to a T, sometimes months in advance. He runs all his days off through the proper channels, at the proper intervals, and while he does still maintain an allure of mystery, he's more upfront with the agency now. He _certainly_ doesn't call the Major's personal number an hour before Peter is supposed to be there and mutter something about not having anything up his sleeves today. 

 

"It could be nothing." The Major admits. "But it could also be a heinous bluff. He is evil, after all. Go check it out, Agent P." 

 

Peter dutifully salutes and trudges over to his jetpack. Today was going to be a long day. 

 

* * *

As Peter flies over the Seattle skyline, his mind picks at the one piece of information that he knows that O.W.C.A. doesn't, and hopefully will never find out. 

 

Professor Mystery, or rather his civilian persona, Miggs Ortega, works at the same university Peter does. UDub. Works in the same college, the same hallway as Peter. Teaches the same courses. 

 

This fact was unknown to both of them until _after_ they'd started sleeping together for three months. Peter due to his inability to distinguish voices without visual input and the ever-present mask of Mystery; Miggs due to his inability to recognize faces without voices to attach to them. 

 

This has caused a huge fight on multiple levels, and Peter almost considered leaving the agency and the town, but the two soon settled on an agreement. They would act as before, nemeses by night, dating or...whatever by day. 

 

It had worked out pretty well, by all counts, and even gave Peter some insights into weaknesses he could exploit after dark. Miggs, after noting this, made sure to keep anything too useful out of their small talk. They weren't, perhaps, the healthiest relationships in the world. But they worked, and Peter loved both sides of the coin and the thin strip of metal between them. 

 

In any case, the combing through today's interactions had been entirely useless. Miggs had been crabby today, but he was every day. He kissed him less, but sometimes that happened. Especially when the break room coffee machine was on the fritz. 

 

And as Peter broke into Mystery's rented basement lair, he found....nothing. Nothing new at least. Everything from last week's scheme, (no one in their jurisdiction even attempted daily, you'd have to be utterly obsessed), was in its place. Broken -inator parts, blueprints, the broken trap. Even the scorch marks from the explosion hadn't been washed out yet, and Peter knew Miggs _hated_ putting that off. 

 

Something was wrong here, but it wasn't evil. 

 

* * *

Five minutes later, Peter is knocking on Miggs Ortega's apartment door, his chest heavy and with no idea what he's doing. His mission was done, Professor Mystery wasn't doing evil tonight. But the why of it curled around his heart and squeezed, his instincts refused to stay quiet on his way home, and Miggs' apartment building was _right there..._  


 

He raps again, louder, and gets a grumpy-sounding 'coming!' for his trouble. It's only about thirty seconds before the door is opened, but it feels like an eternity, a racing, spiraling Hell. 

 

"Christ, Al, I've got your fucking rent just get off my ca -" The words and the hand pushing crumpled bills towards the person at the door stops when he sees who it is. His face turns white, then red, but Peter's not really looking, too busy absorbing what his eyes are telling him. 

 

Miggs is in a wheelchair. A fucking wheelchair. A hospital issued, creaky-as-hell, wire spoked wheelchair. One he's fairly used to using, if the worn foam armrests have anything to say. He's wearing a loose t-shirt with no binder and old sweatpants and locker room shoes that speak of a recent stay in the hospital. 

 

Before Peter can ask what's happened, Miggs is seething, his acid tongue poised for murder. 

 

"What the _fuck_ are you doing here, Peter the Panda?! I _told_ your precious Major there's nothing going on tonight! You shouldn't even be here, remember?" he hisses, using Peter's own words against him, raking up hot coals from The Fight. 

 

He reaches for his notepad and pen, always in his pocket, but Miggs reaches out a hand , fingers circling his wrist tight, keeping him from doing so. 

 

"Oh no. No bullshit excuses. You just don't turn _off_ , do you Peter?" 

 

He looks away guiltily. It's true, he's used some of the trust gained from their day relationship unfairly against him, but this wasn't like that! 

 

Peter's pleading expression somehow cracked through the ball of rage that was Miggs. He sighs, wheeling away from the door. 

 

"You better come in. Don't want a _civilian_ to see that jetpack." he says bitterly, and Peter slinks into the familiar apartment. 

 

He's guided over to the plush couch, finally losing the grip on his wrist, which is more than a little sore for it. Whatever happened, he certainly wasn't weak from it. 

 

"Explain." Miggs demands. "And it better be good." 

 

Under the intense gaze, Peter retrieves his notebook and pen, starting it on his palm so the first few letters won't stick. 

 

**"O.W.C.A. wanted to check you weren't bluffing. Went to lair."**

 

"I figured that much, genius." he says, rolling his eyes. "I meant why are you here, at my apartment that you shouldn't know about." 

 

Peter hesitates, not really sure himself at first. Upon introspection though, it's obvious, if not easy to admit. But he has to. He can't lose Miggs, not after everything. 

 

  
**"Not here for agency. I'm here for you."** he writes, underlining the last word when he sees the confusion on his face. **"I was worried."**  


 

"Oh that's rich. Peter the man-whore, giving a fuck about someone." he says, intentionally hurtful, and Peter grits his teeth but says nothing. Instead he pulls off his 1940's fedora and throws it to the ground, reaching over to brush his cheek with the left hand while the right scribbles a message. 

 

**"Of course I care. You're my boyfriend."**

 

Miggs' eyes widen at the message, flicking between it and the solid blue eyes looking at him through tinted frames, serious and worried and...kind. Like he can trust him. 

 

"I-It's not recent." he mutters after a moment. "The injury." 

 

These few words might not mean much to most, but Peter knows that if it's not recent, it can only be one thing. 

 

  
**"The scars."** The scars that criss-cross Miggs' spine, jagged ones like slashes and purposeful surgical ones. When asked, all Miggs would do was mutter about an accident. So Peter stopped asking. Some things are beyond work. 

 

"Yea. I um....I can't afford my pain meds anymore. They've been regulating opiates to shit because of everything, and it costs. It was either that or the T and blockers. I can't lose that." he says, biting his lip, eyes shining with tears. 

 

"I-I can't get a loan because my credit is shit from the medical fees, and they add more interest since I keep missing p-payments. Even if I work at that college for the rest of my life, I'll still never get out of this hole." he admits, laughing bitterly. The tears are flowing now, rolling down his cheeks like the rain on windows. 

 

"There's one more expense I can't get rid of. Evil. If I stop making -inators, you'll get reassigned, and I'll be all alone again. Basically I'm fucked." he spits, laughing again, the breathes punctuated with sobs. 

 

Peter doesn't hesitate a second, pulling the man into his arms, and that's the last brick in the dam. Miggs cries out the months of frustration, of fear of losing everything, his home, his body, his love. He cries because the world is even more broken than he is, and he can't make it alone. But mostly he cries because Peter's there, he's listening and he knows everything and he's so tired of holding these secrets in the chance he might use it against him. 

 

Peter soothes Miggs, fingers playing with his hair, tracing down the curve of his spine, through the thin fabric of the shirt and over each raised section of skin. It calms him, even though a few remind him of the dull pain throbbing a baseline on his nervous system. He kisses him, open-mouthed, desperate things that make Miggs whimper, then groan. 

 

Miggs claws at the other's uniform shirt, reaching for skin, and quickly meets success. 

 

"Make me forget." he breathes, eyes filled with a heat that settles deep in Peter's stomach, hips rocking against his. "Make me forget my life's a hellhole and you're going to leave eventually, please! Just make me forget." he begs, and Peter has never been a strong man but he dares anyone to say no to such a plea. 

 

He wants to say that he won't leave, even if it's not true, that he wont make him suffer any more, even though it's his fucking job to, but his throat is too heavy for words and his brain always seems to play second fiddle to his dick. 

 

By the time they're done, they're too tired for  sentiment, for anything other than sleep, but Peter goes to sleep with the heaviest question of his life on his mind.

 

"Which side of the coin do you choose?" 

**Author's Note:**

> did anyone catch the references? ;)


End file.
